


Doctor Who - Colepaldi RPF - Giving Comfort (Jenna)

by Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis (Samstown4077)



Series: Colepaldi Collection [24]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Humour, RPF, Romance, Sick Fic, Slight swearing, Suppressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenna is sick and Peter comes over after shooting to give help and comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Who - Colepaldi RPF - Giving Comfort (Jenna)

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native, sorry for any mistakes, and thanks for reading it anyway.  
> Please do not read if you don't like RPF.  
> There is a part II [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2690660)  
> Remember this is a fictional story.

It is around eight in the morning, when Peter comes from the make up section toward the Tardis set, sipping from his coffee, to check for Jenna. He hasn't seen her yet and he can sense something is wrong. They usually meet up before going to make up.

 

“Where is Jenna?” he asks the director.

 

“She called in sick today,” he glances up shuffling some papers around, apparently they now have to find an alternative work schedule. “She seems to lay in bed with fever. No chance she is coming in today. We are just about to change schedule.”

 

Peter just nods, and steps aside, he knows now the team has to do quick work.

 

It concerns him, Jenna usually is always on set, even when she feels not well. So not coming in means; she’s probably lying half dead at home.

 

He takes his cellphone out of his coat and dials her number. It takes a few rings till a muffled voice answers. “Dungeons of torture?”

 

He smiles, “You haven’t lost your humour yet.”

 

“I am about to do so,” her voice sounds tired and husky. He can imagine her laying sprawled out in her bed, ready to die.

 

“Do you need anything?” he softly asks with honest concern.

 

“A wonder,” she breathes heavily into the phone. “Nah, thank you, I just need some rest, I guess.”

 

“You know you have to drink a lot.”

 

“I’ll do, don’t worry. I’ll will manage that somehow. Go, you surely have better things to do,” she says, already drifting off to sleep.

 

He puts the phone back and thinks about how he can help her from here.

 

After a short meeting how the day will go on, he walks over to Jared the personal assistant of Jenna and him, “Listen Jared, you have to do me a favour. You know Jenna is sick at home? Here you go, get some chicken soup, water and some painkillers and bring it over to her,” he gives him 50 pounds. “Make sure she eats the chicken soup.”

 

Jared does as told and grabs his bike to vanish from the set.

 

 _‘Help is on the way,’_ he sends her a message over his phone before starting the shooting.

  


**_LATER_ **

 

In the late afternoon, they finally can wrap up the day and Peter quickly changes from his costume into his street wear, to get into his car to drive over to Jenna.

 

He climbs the stairs to the third floor and knocks three times at her door. There is no reaction and he presses his ear against the door. He knocks again, “Jenna?”

 

In this moment the door goes open and Jenna looks at him, wrapped into a blanket, wearing some jogging pants and a grey jumper. Her hair is made to a ponytail and she has dark lines under her eyes. He smiles at her, while recognizing the fine lines of a pillow that are still on her face.

 

“I did wake you up, didn’t I?”

 

She just turns around, and walks straight back to her bed at the end of the corridor, to fall flat onto it. “You shouldn't have come. I'm a mess.”

 

He closes the door and follows her into her bedroom. Not only she is a mess, the room is too. The old chicken soup plastics stand around, mixed in a dozen of paper handkerchiefs, a couple of glasses and the TV in the next room is running on mute. “I can see that,” he glances around.

 

“I mean it, you shouldn't have come. You’ll catch something from me. You can’t get sick too. You are the Doctor, they can’t replace you. And then everything will be delayed and-”

 

“-Doctor Who will be cancelled forever, probably,” he mocks her and she only gives him a grimace out of pain and annoyance.

 

“I mean it!”

 

“Objection heard. Objection overruled. Of course I came, you are sick, and obviously you need all the help and some comfort.”

 

“I don’t need help,” she muffles into her pillow, coughing.

 

“Oh, keep quiet,” he walks over to the window too opens the blinds a bit and to open the window.

 

“No, it’s cold! Please!” she protests curling under her blanket.

 

“I said keep quiet, lass. You need a bit of fresh air. It smells like the laboratory of doom in here. Just five minutes. Your bacteria need some fresh air,” the next he does is to pick up the used handkerchiefs, to throw them away into the toilet.

 

“You shouldn’t touch that, you _will_ get sick!”

 

He hushes her down, flushes the paper away and collects the glasses and the empty chicken soup cups to bring them into the kitchen. Washing on glass, filling it up with some water he places it beside her bed with some aspirin. “Here drink this. Against your headache.”

 

“How do you know I have a headache?”

 

“No offence, dear, you look like shit, it’s obvious you have a headache,” he smiles sitting next to her side on her bed.

 

“It is cold,” she only whines and he stands up to close the window again.

 

“Do you have a clinical thermometer? When was the last time you measured?”

 

“Noon or something,” she downs the aspirin, holding out the thermometer to him.

 

“What did it say?” he sits back in front of her, looking at her in concern.

 

“39,8.”

 

He places a hand on her forehead, then on her cheek, giving her a frowning look. She meets his eyes and is totally taken by his touch. It’s to her, as if her temperature rises again, only by his touch and not by her sickness.

 

She blinks, and knows he will probably ask her soon why she looks so terrified at him, so she quickly backs away, “Are you a fucking Doctor, now?”

 

He chuckles, “Actually, yes I am,” he holds out the thermometer to her, close to her mouth. She takes it from his hand, not without brushing her fingertips against his, and places the thing in her mouth. Lying back she presses herself deep into her pillow.

 

“Can you hear this? The silence?” he teases and raises a finger in warning, so she will not interrupt the measurement. “Anyway, I brought you some other good stuff.”

 

He stands up, grabs his bag and vanishes into the kitchen. She follows him with her eyes. “I got oranges,” he states and searches his way through the small kitchen to get the fruits pressed.

 

When the thermometer peeps he glances out of the kitchen, waiting for Jenna to tell him, what it says, “38,4.”

 

“Good, not brilliant, but good,” he vanishes again and Jenna closes her eyes. She is tired and she hopes the painkillers will soon kick in to sooth her headache. She is glad, Peter did came over, to give her comfort and to look after her.

 

“Here, drink this,” he comes back out of the kitchen and gives her a big glass with fresh pressed orange juice. When she does so, he starts searching in his bag and pulls out a white little plastic box. He opens it up, and throws a few white pills into his hands.

Jenna stops drinking, lowering the glass, but Peter places a hand without looking at her, on her arm, raising the glass again to her lips. “All of it!”

 

“Yes, Doctor,” she huffs before emptying the glass. He smiles pleased, takes the glass out of her hand, and gives her the white pills for it.

 

“What is this?”

 

“Minerals,” he brings the glass back to the kitchen. “Good for your inner minerals household.”

 

She stares at the pills in her hand, “Something like homoeopathy?” she can hear him clatter in the kitchen, turning on the cooking plate.

 

“Yes.”

 

She just shrugs and eats them. “Since when do you believe in this stuff?”

 

He comes back with two glasses, filled with some brown liquid in it. “I'm beyond 50, I am allowed to believe in such stuff.”

 

She giggles, “Are you?”

 

He is not sure what she means, his age or that he has came to her flat with some minerals. Jenna can see him think about it, and smiles gently. He doesn't look like 56. Not with this dark blue shirt, and the way to attractive denim around his lean figure. “What poison is this?” she lets him go of the hook.

 

Both glasses in his hand, he steps toward her, happy she has asked. “This, dear, is my personal secret weapon,” he holds one of the glasses out to her, and she takes it.

 

“It’s warm!” and then sniffs. “That’s … that’s whiskey! Warm whiskey!”

 

Peter notices that her eyes are now as big as usual, but it is only for a moment, till the sickness comes back, and they almost fall shut.

 

“It is. With a shot of lemon in it. It will kill off your bacteria. I promise.”

 

She takes a sip, and her face makes almost all the talking for her, “That is gross!”

 

“Oy, this is fine whiskey, ma’am! Now down with it!” he orders, and she knows he will not allow disobedience. Eyeing first her glass with not less whiskey in it, she feels fear to drink that stuff. Then she eyes him suspicious, when her hand goes up to his glass, touching it. “Yours is cold!”

 

“Of course it is! I am not the one who is sick here, and there are sacrifices I don’t do for anybody,” he sips lightly from it, waiting for her to drink from her glass.

 

“I am not sure I can do that,” it is almost too revolting for her.

 

“It will help. Promise. The alcohol will kill the bacteria and the heat of it will make you sweat everything out,” his voice is still commanding, but soft and it helps her to understand that he isn’t doing this to anger her.

 

She sips from it, “It will make me drunk.”

 

A grin appears on his face, “Of course! That is the fun part. You are already a mess, a bit of alcohol will nothing change here. Come one, together!” he holds out his glass to cling them together.

 

She sighs and does as he says. They both empty the glasses in one deep gulp. Jenna makes a face and he is scared she will not hold up the liquor, but she does, bringing out her tongue like a little child. He laughs, feeling the whiskey in his body now, sending pleasant vibes through it.

 

“Hey! Wait a minute, are you not supposed to drive? That was a double whiskey,” she looks at him in shock.

 

“Control freak,” he shoves her back into her pillow, before walking to the other side of the bed to sit aside from her. He slips his shoes off, makes himself comfortable before he takes some papers out of his bag and gets his reading glasses placed on his nose.

 

Jenna eyes him amazed. He just sits there, legs crossed, the pillow shoved into his back, reading - like it was the most natural thing to share the bed like this with her.

 

“Didn’t say I would leave soon. I am not here to make you drunk, and leave again. I am here to take care of you.”

 

“So you’ll stay?”

 

“Of course,” he smiles opening the magazine up he has brought himself. “Try to sleep.”

Jenna turns her back toward him and nestles her face into her pillow. She can already feel the whiskey float through her veins and the sound of Peter rustling with his magazine begins to faint into the distance. She dozes off.

 

It must be already late when she wakes up, still in the same position. Slowly she opens her eyes and registers that the lamp in the corner is still on and that it is dark outside. She still feels weak and tired but a bit better, the headache is gone. She is almost about to fall back asleep when she hears a soft snoring behind her. Her eyes pop open again and she remembers that Peter had showed up at her apartment earlier and hadn’t left yet.

 

Turning carefully around, she finds him aside from her. His head lies on the pillow and the magazine on his chest, his fingers still holding it. The reading glasses have slipped a bit down the bridge of his nose and his mouth stays slightly open.

 

She can’t help herself and watches him for a moment, then she decides to steal away the magazine and free him from his glasses, so they don’t get damaged.

 

She is sure she looks pretty awkward while she takes the paper laborious from him, she makes a grimace, when he moves his face a bit and moans silent in his sleep. Stopping in her movement, the magazine in her hand hanging in the air - hoping he will not wake up. After twenty seconds she dares to move again and places the magazine on the ground by her side.

 

When she comes to his glasses, she feels her pulse quicken, and she has to hold still for a moment to gather some courage, then she decides to make a quick manoeuvre. Using both hands, she slides the glasses of, not without holding her breath and is surprised he doesn’t notice.

 

Uncareful she huffs in relief.

 

“-what?” Peter shoots up, and looks around, half asleep.

 

Startled but quick in her reaction, she places one hand on his shoulder, “Everything is fine. Go back to sleep!”

 

Weary eyes survey her, and she is unsure what will happen next. “Go. back. to. sleep. Peter,” she whispers demanding, and it doesn’t fail in its desirable effect.

 

He inhales deeply, licks his lips and falls back with his eyes already closing. “Yes, love…,” rolling onto his shoulder, facing Jenna’s side he seems to sleep again, leaving a now wide awake Jenna back in the world of the awake.

 

A minute goes by while she leans at the rest of her bed, looking in turns between him and her feet. Then she slides back under her blanket, she turns her back at him, but it is no position she can sleep in. Not with him, at her side, facing her - even she knows he is asleep. So she turns around, looking at him, seeing him sleep. His face at ease, a soft expression, one hand under the pillow, the other by his face. His hair is dishevelled and for a moment she wants to touch his forehead to brush her fingers through his curls, it’s hard to stop herself from doing it.

 

Rolling back to her back, she stares for a while at the ceiling, listening into the almost silence of the room. There is her heart, drumming against her chest, relaxed but still a bit too fast in her opinion and there is his steady breathing. It is midnight, she reads from the clock at her night stand.

 

Her hand brushes through her hair, it is all sticky and a fine ache in her back remembers her, that she is still sick and should go back to sleep, to be back on Monday on the set. There are things to do and things she can’t right now - sleep is one.

 

From minute to minute she becomes more restless and moves from one side to the other. Suddenly something warm touches her hand, she freezes in that very moment. Peter has reached out to her.

 

“You okay?” he hasn’t opened his eyes.

 

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I woke up.”

 

His hand hovers in the air, carefully searching for her face, without looking, brushing over her nose slightly and then settles down onto her forehead.

 

“Your temperature is better, I think,” he takes his hand away, back to her side, back onto her hand, as if it is a natural thing between them. Maybe it is, she can’t think clear in this moment. There is still whiskey with painkillers in her veins. What could she say? Nothing, so she keeps silent.

 

“I am sorry,” he suddenly says, blinking at her, his eyes small from sleep.

 

Her head shots toward him in surprise, “What for?”

 

“For falling asleep,” his thumb makes little circles on her hand, then he takes it away. “I maybe should move to the couch, so you can sleep.”

 

It is a reflex, at least that is what she tells herself, when her hand grabs for his arm to make him stay - he hasn’t moved yet. “No, it’s fine. Don’t bother. The couch is not really comfortable anyway. …  I mean you can, if you want to.”

 

A moment of silence falls over them, and she can see, he thinks about what to do. He is tired and not really in the mood to switch her comfortable bed with the tiny couch he is way to tall for.

 

“Just want to be polite,” he finally says and says nothing at all with it.

 

“Polite?”

 

He seems to dwell forever on the next sentence, “Thought, it’s maybe a bit improper.” They both know it is a conversation they should have, but both don’t want to have and it feels hard to find the right words to address the topic.

 

She does what comes to her mind first. She laughs. Not loud, but enough to make the side of her bed wobble slightly. “Seriously?”

 

He feels misunderstood, resting his head on his fist, shooting her a special glare with one of his eyebrows. She smirks at his reaction, “Aside from me being sick, you’re afraid I will try to get into your pants?”

 

He flops back onto the pillow with his head, sighing, eyeing her for a few seconds, then he stares at the ceiling.

 

“Let’s get back to sleep,” he simply says, closing his eyes. Jenna doesn’t and keeps looking at him. Of course he can feel it and so he asks, “What is it? Go back to sleep.”

 

“Are you?” she lies on her side facing him, and when he turns over there isn’t much space between their faces.

 

“Will you?” She frowns at him. “Try to get into my pants?” he makes an amused impression and his tone is light, but behind all that lays a serious matter for him - she knows Peter way too good.

 

“Wasn’t my plan for _tonight_ , sorry mate.”

 

He gives a short huffing laugh, and rolls onto his back again. “Well then.”

 

She knows he will say nothing more about it and so she takes a deep breath and tries to sleep again and she is almost back in her dream, when she can feel his hand touch hers. She would like to react, but it is too late, she has fallen asleep, with the faint feeling of his thumb pressing into her palm.

 

When he is sure she has settled into a deep sleep, he crawls as silent as possible out of the bed and tiptoes over to the living room. He settles onto the couch, boxes a few time in one of the pillows and then wraps the blanket around his lean figure. He had worse nights in worse spots, than on Jenna’s couch.

 

It is two o’clock when he finally falls back asleep, knowing; that it is not her who is afraid about doing something stupid.

  


([Gifcredit](http://nate-scott.tumblr.com/post/103584263677/i-knew-when-i-was-10-that-i-wanted-to-act))

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it / or disliked it - if so ---> Kudos? ---> Comment?  
> If you like Colepaldi, I publish on regular basis and take prompts.


End file.
